


Clandestine

by donotjustlive_fly



Series: A Study In... [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Clandestine Love, Feels, Friendship/Love, M/M, Waltzing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2013-11-25
Packaged: 2018-01-02 14:45:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1058026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donotjustlive_fly/pseuds/donotjustlive_fly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>A Study in Motion</i>
</p><p> </p><p><span class="u">clandestine</span> |klanˈdestən, -ˌtīn, -ˌtēn, ˈklandəs-| <i>adjective</i>:<br/>kept secret or done secretively, esp. because illicit</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clandestine

**Author's Note:**

> This was written several months ago out of mostly nowhere- I believe I might have been inspired by that one picture of the boys dancing on the roof, and I was intending to write something sweet and fluffy. Somehow this baby was written instead. After finishing it, I felt like I needed to write a full story to fit around it; in the end, however, nothing I wrote could completely compare to this first bit. I will be posting the others eventually because I /am/ proud of them. For now, enjoy my favorite child.

* * *

The music is soft, barely floating through the flat above the familiar bustle of the city just outside the window. Not nearly as beautiful as a certain brunette's own violin playing, but wielding a bow and its accompanying instrument is difficult when body and mind are otherwise occupied. No words are spoken, nor are they needed; this melody-led interaction is nearly an old habit by now, a pair of souls so familiar and so neatly intertwined with each other that it has long been difficult to tell where one truly ends and the other fully begins.

The former soldier slips his fingers through the long, slender digits of his companion's, his other hand falling naturally to a narrow waist; he turns his head slightly to brush a reflexive kiss to the delicate wrist arching at his shoulder. They always begin like this- a 'proper' distance apart, bodies taking on positions learned before their lives had intersected so wildly and settling into long-memorized steps; a slow, circular 1-2-3 that takes them round the old lounge, maneuvering past the low table and tattered chairs and stacks of books with a practiced ease.

Somewhere along the way, however, the space between them closes- one extra turn to avoid a new box, a brief stumble over an accidentally-placed shoe, the near-force-of-nature that is this waltz itself- and without knowing exactly when or how they are chest to chest, the fingers of one hand each still intertwined and the others resting in the small of a back and tucked comfortably in short blond hair.

As the music nears its end, movements slow to a gentle sway, their bodies folding closer together for a precious few more moments, forehead to forehead and eyes shut against the world. Words may be spoken at this point, soft and hesitant- ' _thank you_ ' and ' _I'm sorry_ ' and ' _this will be the last time, I promise_ ' (neither of them mean this final statement, regardless of who says it at the time). Then the needle slips off the edge of the record at last and static replaces music, and in the white noise before reality sets back in a chaste brush of lips is exchanged, bodies parting quickly afterwards to avoid tempting fate too far. Clothes are self-consciously brushed down and a worn jacket is donned, the doctor giving the consulting detective a brisk handshake and pulling out a mutual promise to text if either hears anything more about the latest case. He turns and leaves the flat with tension in his shoulders and in the hand on his cane, only allowing himself a brief backward glance once he hits the street and raising a hand in farewell to the lanky shadow haunting one of 221B's front windows.

Not until the familiar form disappears around the corner does Sherlock let himself turn from the glass, curling himself into a faded chair (always technically his but briefly -and forever in his mind- claimed by his former flatmate) and staring blankly at the wall, numb.

Life will resume as always in the morning, as if these brief, stolen moments are merely a dream- only existing in some strangely desperate other-world between cases and hospitals shifts and a shiny new life with a shiny new wife with bright blonde hair and soft curves and a baby on the way. But for now, a lonely man sits in an empty ( _without him_ ) flat and commits to memory the eternally-familiar brush of chapped lips against his and the warmth of calloused fingers on his skin, stubbornly ignoring the ache of loss.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> All comments, criticisms, and questions are welcome. Keep an eye out, because I will be posting the other six chapters over the next few weeks or so.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
